SHADOWS
by I love music
Summary: Javert's Childhood
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I had a bad case of writers' block so thought I would try some freewriting. The result, probably because I've just finished reading Les Mis, was an exploration of Javert's childhood. I'm still editing the story so hope to have the next part up within the week. :)

_**Intro**_

A hush fell slowly over the world. The wind sighed, the deep sigh of the widow who lost all she ever loved, then lapsed again into quiet reflection. Wavering shadows of trees, caught in night's breath, ceased to tremble. Pinpricks of candlelight flickered and died as window shutters closed in distant buildings. The rattle of wheels, the clip-clop of hooves, some solitary carriage crossing some faraway bridge, faded into nothingness. All silent, all at rest, save for the lapping river.

Javert was alone now.

He edged closer towards the Seine. But for the vague shade of a man shivering momentarily on the swirling river below, the movement might have passed unnoticed. Still his elbows rested on the parapet, still his chin rested in his hands, his fingers buried in his whiskers. A shifting only of his upper body, a slight tilt forward, his gaze more intent upon the black waters. Nothing more stirred. Except in the depths of his soul.

Javert's mind was in turmoil. It was a terrible thing to be a servant of the law and to flout the law. It was a travesty to wear the badge of police officer when that badge was tarnished. He, Inspector Javert, who had always conscientiously fulfilled his duty, who had always been above reproach and a fine, upstanding citizen, had allowed the prisoner Jean Valjean to go free! If his heart beat in sympathy with a convict then how could he trust his heart again? If his eyes burned with tears then how could he see justice as clearly as before? If he was weak enough to doubt then how could he be strong enough to judge? The law said the convict was evil. Yet Valjean spared him when he had every right, every means, to kill him. Valjean, the convict, was good. If Valjean was good then the law was bad. Javert's whole life, his whole purpose of being, had been built on a crumbling foundation. And what was his life without a purpose? A life was worth nothing lived as a lie.

The moon slithered out from behind a mass of grey clouds, casting misty silver light amid the thick gloom, silently watching. With sudden resolution, as if Death called his name and he would quickly answer, Javert removed his hat, set it down on the quay and leaned over the icy waters. The moon and the river waited. This man's life must soon be over. This man must surely die alone, friendless, unmourned, unloved.

And yet he was a boy once.


	2. Chapter 2

*****chapter 1*****

*****A Life Begins*****

Hidden by the darkness, the child rested his thin cheek against the stone pillar and watched all around him. It was easy to slip about unseen, for the prison was full of shadows. Sunlight entered this grey world of ghosts reluctantly, keen, as ever, to be on its way, throwing dappled patterns through the high barred windows, leaving nothing but night where its light refused to fall. And the boy, a strange, quiet child who crept noiselessly about the prison, preferred the gloom that protected him with its heavy cloak. Moreover, there was a certain comfort in the steadfastness of the cold, hard pillar and he wrapped his small arms around it as far as he was able.

The lad was referred to by those who would make his acquaintance as Little Javert and as he knew no other name he answered to it. Occasionally, it is true, his mother called him by foolish pet names, but it is also true this was not done out of any stirrings of motherly affection. It was, for reasons that will become clear further into our tale, to make him appear younger. Jeanne Javert had no maternal instincts. She did not so much lose babies as mislay them. Perhaps, in order to clear the reader's furrowed brow at this puzzling statement, I would do well to pause here and offer some history of the Javert family.

The Javerts were gypsies. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, dark-skinned, persecuted, poverty-stricken, hawkers, beggars, street entertainers; this they shared in common with many of their race. But even the lowest among them kept in their hearts a particular tenderness towards their children and though starving themselves would do without bread if it meant their little ones could be fed. Bernard Javert and his wife Jeanne had no such scruples.

When Little Javert was a babe in arms they wrapped him in dirty, blackened rags, fed him the least they dared without incurring his premature death and perchance their arrest for murder, and, with the listless infant mewing weakly, barely alive, they carried him from door to door, Jeanne Javert wailing and Bernard Javert comforting in the manner of doting parents, begging a coin or two, anything, that their beloved son might live. The ruse proved so successful, and they were able to drink and dine so sumptuously the very same night, that they repeated the act as they moved from town to town, until finally they were sought by the police and the lucrative practice hastily abandoned.

Almost as soon as the child could walk they took him to beg, but he was only one among thousands of child beggars the great city of Paris spawned, and being no more clever or handsome or wily than they, yielded little return. Many of these mendicants, children and adults, feigned disability to play on sympathies, but the bourgeois, accustomed to such deceptions, were not to be so easily duped, for weren't the poor the undeserving poor, wicked, slothful, thieves, charlatans, all? It did not pass unnoticed by the destitute however that genuine invalids, the lame, the blind, the limbless, occasionally aroused a morsel of pity in the more soft-hearted. It was this gave Bernard Javert the idea to break his son's arm.

Snapped in two like a twig while the child's mother, indifferent to his pain, drank a soothing draught of water, for it was a very hot day in mid summer, and beads of sweat on the boy's forehead even before the torture. Then those cruel, unnatural parents forced the poor mite to walk the streets of Paris, with his arm hanging loose from its socket and scalding hot tears of agony raining down his cheeks, with his little face raised in supplication, his good arm outstretched, his small hand cupped, and watched with pleasure as their pot of money grow. If they had not need of someone to work for them, it is my belief they would have maimed their child further and in doing so killed him and our tale never told. But it was his fortune or misfortune to survive and live out his miserable existence.

One day, when Little Javert was around four years old and by then brother to a boy of about two or three and a girl of perhaps thirteen or fourteen months, and grown fond of both, or at least as fond as a malnourished, ill-treated creature, who lived in shadows and never allowed to time to play, can be without knowing how or what it was to be loved, his mother and father fell into conversation with a maid from a large house. The slow-witted lass, for so she was, poor thing, a grown woman with the naïve heart and mind of a child, had been tasked with an errand and carried with her for this purpose a certain sum of money, which she, upon invitation, willingly displayed while also, being drawn to talk, confided that her mistress was heartbroken over learning she would never be able to bear children.

Scratching his chin as though in sudden realisation, although sharp Little Javert observed that he earlier exchanged a look with his wife, Bernard Javert happened to remark, bless me, if didn't they have not one, but _two_ babies, and what a pity it was that some folk had as many babies as they wanted and didn't want 'em and couldn't feed 'em, while some folk couldn't have babies and wanted 'em and could feed 'em, and whatever was to be done, he didn't know, unless folk traded. The child/woman was easily manipulated. A deal was struck. The money stayed with the Javerts and the infants went, hand-in-hand, with the broadly smiling innocent, shedding not a single tear at being parted from their mother and father, though once or twice they glanced back in wide-eyed bewilderment at their sobbing brother, as if to ask why he didn't join them.

What became of the little ones, I do not know. Their gypsy looks would have marked them outcasts from the very start, and it is extremely doubtful the mistress of the house took them in; more probably the simple-minded maid lost her position, perhaps even her freedom, for spending money that was not hers to spend, and we can only hope and pray this trusting soul found someone or some way or somewhere to take care of the babes. All that is known is, they crossed a bridge over the Seine, were glimpsed now and then amid the noise, crowds and carriages, then melted away into the bustling streets, gone forever.

Two more Javert children were sold in the space of two years, but by then, and after he briefly became attached to a stray emaciated dog that his father kicked to death in a fit of anger over his dinner being burnt, Little Javert had learnt never to love anything and the new separations barely troubled him. A boy, no more than two weeks old, was given, in exchange for a jug of wine, to a grief-stricken mother whose newborn had been reclaimed by Heaven the day before. The sister was two, so strikingly pretty that it was often commented upon, and precociously graceful, lacking even the unsteadiness that usually accompanies the art of walking at that tender age, when another gypsy family, who earned their bread as acrobats and dancers, offered to buy her as a dancer. A price was settled but the gypsy family fled with the girl before payment was made, and Little Javert, being fast asleep when she was taken, beaten so badly by his parents that he, almost mercifully, fell into blackness for a while.

So, you see, he was used to the dark. He was used to being woken long before the sun rose, often with a kick or blow, to prepare his parents' breakfast if there was food, to scavenge for scraps if there was none; to light a fire they could wake to in some filthy hovel or under the stars; to fetch water from the well or melt snow or ice in the bitterest of winters, and his breath and fingers blue. The dark could hold no more terrors for the boy than it had not already. His eyes could see well enough in the gloom of the prison he prowled silently through with the ease of a cat. This made him a useful spy. And the guards rewarded him for spying.

Little Javert held fast to the comfort of the stone pillar, shrouded by the protection of the shadows, and watched.


	3. Chapter 3

_Previous chapter: Little Javert's mother Jeanne has been arrested and he is imprisoned with her._

*****chapter 2*****

*****Paris*****

What was the object of the boy's scrutiny? His mother. At least he called this person who brought him into his sad existence his mother but he never knew her to be one. Sometimes, it is true, he dreamed an idle dream of what it might be to have a mother who cared for him. He saw other mothers who loved their children and would blink back hot tears of loneliness at his own miserable fate. It would not do to cry when he must learn to be strong.

He remembered seeing one such loving mother when he was around five years old, the day he ran away from his parents. Little Javert was not by nature wilful nor rebellious, broken by hunger and beatings, and being so small, thin and weak, but that morning awakened the great city of Paris with a strange new promise. Though it was March and yesterday cold as any stone a wan sun poked through the clouds and the air was not so unkind, but brought tender kisses in its breeze. They crossed the Pont Notre Dame, bound for the grounds of the gothic cathedral where, as they had often done before, his father Bernard would pick pockets while his mother Jeanne would use her son to create a diversion.

Other than the unseasonably warm weather, the day was not remarkable. The usual sights and sounds and smells of Paris surrounded them: the shouts of pedlars hawking their wares, the strolling entertainers with their hurdy-gurdies and magic lanterns, the noisy, bustling, jostling crowds, the horse-drawn carts and coaches, galloping, swerving, trotting, the metallic rattle of wheels occasionally throwing up spots of water from fetid puddles; the pungent odour of rotting human flesh (it was less than twelve months since Les Innocents Cemetery burst its walls and spilled its skeletons and still the stench lingered) which caused many a gentlemen to press handkerchief to nose and many a lady to delicately sniff nosegay or pomander as they rode past in their grand carriages. It was when they reached the end of the bridge that Little Javert thought he heard the low singing surely of an angel. He looked down to where a filthy, scrawny, half-clothed beggar girl of around fourteen years of age sat cross-legged, one hand cupped in supplication at the passers-by, crooning softly to a gurgling infant who was wrapped in a frayed shawl and held between her grubby knees. Her pleas had not been entirely in vain; three small coins of little value lay nearby and these she guarded as closely as she guarded the babe.

Now whether or not the child was her own (though she was no more than a child herself) or a sibling or had no claim on her affections at all, in Little Javert's young eyes she was a grown woman and mother and he watched curiously as, espying something in the distance, a shadow fell over the angel's countenance. In an instant, she stopped singing, snatched up the three sous and the baby, leapt to her feet and ran, fast as lightning, determined to lose herself among the myriads of streets. That was when Little Javert saw a new emotion in his parents, one which puzzled him, and their terror made him take particular notice of the man who now approached.

He shone, dazzled even, in his uniform, from his gleaming top hat to the silver buttons of his greatcoat down to his polished boots. In her haste to flee, the beggar girl had dropped one of the precious coins and, catching the sparkle of both the pale sun and the pensive river, it rolled along the bridge, jingling to a halt at his toes. The policeman, for so he was, swung the cudgel he carried under his arm, retrieved the coin, bent towards Little Javert and with a smile pressed it into his hand.

"May it bring you luck, little boy," he said, ruffling his thick black hair. "The silly girl had no cause to run," he added, to Little Javert's mother and father. "The law might say begging is a crime, but I would arrest the truly wicked, the thieves, murderers and cheats, the drunk and violent and dealers with the devil, those who _belong_ in the galleys, not the honest poor who might beg but _never_ steal a morsel of food."

He glanced at Bernard and Jeanne Javert as he addressed them and then suddenly he drew himself bolt upright, knitting his brows together, as if considering whether or not he knew them already. And Little Javert, keenly observant as he was always, suddenly recognised the stranger and when and where and how they had met.

_In the depths of winter, hidden under the first majestic arch of Pont Neuf, where his mother is to summon up spirits of the dead while his father takes payment from those who would speak with demons, and Little Javert curled up shivering in the shadows, exhausted from his labours, yet too frozen by the bitter snows and dread of ghosts to sleep. A cry of warning from the watcher, a half scream and half shout, the piercing shriek of a police whistle shattering the muted night, confusion, anger, desperation, a flash of red firelight from the torch of the watcher briefly lighting up faces, ragged breaths and scrunching footsteps. Little Javert is grabbed roughly by the ankle as his father drags him like a corpse, and all he can feel is the icy wetness of the snow on his chest, and all he can taste is the salty blood on his tongue and teeth, and all he can see in the dying light of the discarded torch is left far behind the tall silhouette of the solitary upholder of the law. _

This man. This policeman who, for a fleeting moment in the torchlight, glimpsed the faces of his parents while Little Javert watched from the darkness.

Little Javert's heart (he had one then, you know) began to beat like thunder and arose a thousand thoughts and dreams and hopes and fears at what might come. But just when it seemed all was over and a world turned on its head, a fat, officious gentleman with a profusion of beard and moustache called peremptorily, "You, sir! Police! Arrest this man! Am I to be swindled by this lumbering buffoon and nothing to be done about it?"

"For shame, for shame!" cried the strolling wine-man with the goblets strapped to his belt, his round red face growing redder as an interested group gathered round like vultures to a prey. "I charged you a fair price, sir, that I did, and the price I charge every customer. Is it my fault if you chose to pour it away?"

"Pah!" replied the bourgeois. "The wine is watered down, you cunning dog. Officer, arrest this man at once!"

Now what prompted Little Javert at that very moment to run away, I can no more tell you than he could. The day, as we have learnt, was not remarkable. Paris was the Paris it had always been. Its walls and bridges and boulevards were exactly the same; the Seine still flowed; the birds still chirped in the trees; the young and the old, the rich and the poor, the foolish and the wise, they lived and they died, they laughed and they wept, they slept and they woke, as they had done for all time.

And yet this was the very day and very second that the boy, who was not by nature wilful nor rebellious, nor even given to rash decision but rather pondered each and every action, made up his mind to go. He slipped away, silent as a shadow, and, breathless with freedom, allowed himself to be swallowed up by the noisy, lively, dirty old city. He had no plan of where to go and wandered aimlessly until his hunger carried him to a colourful market. But another policeman patrolled here, ensuring the wealthy gentlefolk come to buy were not troubled by thieves or beggars or streetwalkers, and that the food sold was sold honestly.

Little Javert still clutched the sou tight in his hot palm as though it were gold. He was a rich man who could even afford to _buy _something to eat! But how to eat without being cheated or robbed of the coin or banished by the policeman? There was a tent on the fringes of the market, deserted, away from the crowds. Perhaps he would find scraps of food there. He slipped quickly inside only to realise he was not alone…

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** _I realise Victor Hugo only described Javert's mother as a fortune teller, but I feel she might also have explored other aspects of "fortune telling" if it meant she could earn more money._


	4. Chapter 4

Hmm, I still only have a vague idea of where this story is going but hope you enjoy reading anyway…I guess I've taken poetic license with the word gorgio as I couldn't find the French word for non-gypsy. Same with the chocolate bon-bons; I think it was sold in slabs back then.

_After leaving Jean Valjean, planning to throw himself into the River Seine, Inspector Javert thinks back to his childhood._

*****chapter 3*****

*****Adele*****

No, he was not alone. And it was the first time he fell in love.

A little girl in a rose pink dress, her toffee-coloured ringlets decorated with rose pink ribbons, knelt on a long bench, a large picture book open on the table before her, a box of chocolate bon-bons at her elbow, reading aloud to a doll almost as pretty as herself. Her eyes flew open wide when she espied him and she drew a breath to cry out.

"Police!" He whispered urgently, and he pressed his fingers to his lips.

She was to the sun as he was to the moon yet perhaps there was something pleading in Little Javert's look or in his whisper that touched her heart, for instead of shouting she snapped her mouth shut and listened closely too. It was easy to tell the policeman's tread. Like the man on the Pont Notre Dame, his boots were heavier than the common workman's and owned a more confident stride. The policeman paused nearby. They heard him question one of the market sellers about the fruit she sold and the market seller's deferential answers. The conversation lasted only a few minutes; the policeman being satisfied with the woman's explanation, but all the while Little Javert sat still as a statue and white as a ghost. It was only when they parted that he dared once more steal a glance at his companion.

He had thought he detected a sliver of amusement when he warned her of the policeman but, for him at least, being unafraid of policemen was so alien that he quickly dismissed the idea. Yet there it was again. The girl's rosy lips curved into a smile though she turned her head quickly to try and hide it.

She was not like other children he knew. She dressed like a princess with brooches and bangles and wore shoes with buckles and smelled of flowers on a summer evening freshened by rain. Her skin was not rough and tanned, but porcelain and pink like a lady's, and her small hands were soft and unused to work. A clatter sent a warmth to his face. The little girl had risen to her feet and caught him studying her. She surveyed him curiously over the head of the doll she clutched to her chest.

"Why do you stare so? What is your name?" she demanded imperiously. He couldn't answer either question and so remained tongue-tied. He never had a name and how could he tell her he stared because she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen? Even his little sister, the one sold to be a dancer, was not half so lovely.

"Well, I am Adele and if you will not tell me your name I must call you gypsy boy because that is what you are, is it nor?" she said, looking him up and down and wrinkling her delicate nose. "How old are you, Gypsy Boy?"

Awed by her fairylike prettiness and the shining hair he longed to touch, he shrugged and shuffled. "Five or six." How could he know? What child knew his or her age and why must this beautiful girl ask such questions? But he had heard someone say recently he was five or six and so he must be.

"Ho! How can the dolt not know his own name and age, Isabelle?" She asked scornfully of the doll. "Five or six indeed! Isabelle and I are seven. And yet I am so much taller than thou!" Pleased and amused with the discovery, she placed her hand on top of her curly head and then stretched it out palm downwards to demonstrate how he barely reached her shoulders, adding contemptuously, "Gypsy Boy!"

Had any other child mocked him as this girl chose to, Little Javert would have felt bound to defend himself. A boy, even a boy bigger and stronger, he would have boxed in anger till one of them fell down; a girl he would have laughed at, unconcerned by a mere girl's taunts. But Adele was different. Her disdain wounded him deeply and though he longed to win her approval, how could he justify his ignorance to those sparkling brown eyes, laughing at him, curious about him, seeing deep into his soul?

Little Javert had been taught by his own kind, albeit not by his parents, that gypsies were an ancient and fiercely proud race that it was an honour to be born into. Their traditions had been passed down through the centuries in music, dancing and story-telling, and even the very smallest of gypsy children could lisp some of their long, colourful history, be it only in simple song. Others might claim a gypsy's blood was tainted, he heard the older gypsies say, but, poor and despised as gypsies were, they were also free as the wind, at one with nature and rich as kings in a culture that gorgios, with their pale skin, pretty manners and pampered lives, could only dream of. It was this knowledge he was special kept Little Javert warm even in his thin rags on the most bitter winter nights. Yet suddenly he was ashamed of his gypsy birth. Few gypsies, he knew, were wicked as his parents and long ago he had sworn never to be like his mother and father. But how could he be otherwise? His blood was dirty; his heart black. Gypsies lied and cheated; they stole and they killed; they were lazy and workshy. This is what the gorgios said, and though gypsies themselves denied it, it must be the truth because he saw it all now in Adele's beautiful eyes.

Unable to meet her disdainful gaze any longer, and with the delicious smell of chocolate assailing his nostrils as it had done ever since he crawled through the canvas, he switched his attention once more to the tempting box on the table. He was still hungry. He was always hungry. Little Javert had never known what it was not to be even when he had been lucky enough to have a little food to eat. Sometimes he was so famished it was as though his stomach touched his back, but today he had found a stale, half-eaten loaf of bread that some fool had discarded and once he had brushed it free of ants it had been very edible. He had devoured it as a wolf would, carrying it off to a quiet lair, stuffing it whole into his mouth, slobbering, snorting, watching with greedy wariness lest anyone came by and tried to snatch it away. Adele would have been disgusted to see him and he was ashamed to remember. It was not so special, after all, to be gypsy. What it must be to be born into the bourgeoisie, to have a full belly, to sleep quietly in a soft bed and not like an animal outdoors with hard stone for a pillow and rats running over his body, to think nothing of having books to read and toys to play with, to know the luxury of eating bon-bons!

"Ah! So you wish for a chocolate, Gypsy Boy?" Adele said, with a mischievous flash of her dark eyes. "I wonder you do not steal them. It's what your kind do, I am told."

Little Javert's face burned. Why did he not simply push her aside, take the chocolates and go? He had nothing to fear now. The policeman had long gone. Yet he knew why. He wanted Adele to think well of him. He wanted her to smile, not laugh, at him.

"I have money!" He cried, holding out the precious sou. "If you would sell one or two, I would buy."

"No. Isabel and I do not wish to sell," she said, shaking her head so vigorously that a ribbon loosened and dangled prettily on her shoulder. "You may take one, Gypsy Boy, and then you may kiss me to say thank you." She pointed to a place her cheek just below her merrily laughing eyes.

Little Javert's heart sang. He had never kissed a girl before but, from the moment he saw her, he had longed to kiss this beautiful girl. Nor had he ever eaten chocolate though once he had crept into a chocolate house and stolen three sips of hot chocolate before he was caught and soundly beaten for his pains. But he had never forgotten the magic flavour that lingered on his tongue and always yearned to taste it again. He grew bold enough to smile shyly at Adele as he timidly reached his hand into the box, unaware she meant to play a cruel trick on him…


	5. Chapter 5

*****chapter 4*****

*****Games*****

Adele did not mean to be cruel. It was no more than a game to the indulged little rich girl. Last week she had visited the Palais Royal where she'd watched a wonderful puppet show, listened to music, eaten cake and drunk lemonade, and enjoyed several breathless games of chase with other boys and girls her age. When her four cousins came to stay they would run about in the gardens with the cousins' two small dogs or play hide and seek; if the two boys, who were older, Phillippe being twelve and Jacques eleven, thought themselves too grand to play with girls as they sometimes did now, she, Jeanne-Marie and Marguerite would steal their toy soldiers and put ice down their back and salt in their sugar, running screaming to Nurse or Mama to be coddled and consoled if they dared play any tricks in return.

Cosseted, loved, protected, Adele had never known what it was to be neglected or hungry and therefore could form no concept of it. Of course she saw beggars (infrequently, for her doting Mama and Papa deemed their child too precious to witness such an abhorrence to the senses, and the curtains of the coach were carefully closed when they passed by the needy) but was told such people were lazy and could have anything they wanted, if only they would choose to work instead of choosing to beg and steal; that gypsies especially, being close to animals and the lowest of the low with souls dark as their skin, preferred to sleep outdoors even when they had perfectly good beds to sleep in.

At first, she was puzzled when the gypsy was so anxious to hide, but then she quickly supplied herself with an answer. Ah, the spoilt angel surmised with a smile, he had wanted bon-bons and, being told by his Mama he could not have any before dinner, the bad boy had run off and now thought the policeman would arrest him!

Adele herself had once made up her mind to run away when Papa scolded her for leaving toys scattered everywhere and _of course _she wasn't arrested! Before she even reached the gate, Nurse wanted to know where she was going in cloak and bonnet and carrying her two best dolls and a bag of toys and cakes. What a fussing and fretting ensued when her charge tearfully confessed her plan, with Papa begging Adele's pardon and in disgrace for a week!

It was silly of the gypsy boy to think he would get into trouble. Policemen only arrested wicked people. They looked after little children. The policeman was looking after her today because Mama was taken ill while they were out walking and she had to hurry off to collect a new brother or sister for Adele. Adele had stamped her foot and screamed because she wasn't allowed to come and collect the new brother or sister too, but Mama gave the policeman money to buy something for her, while the servant went with Mama, and Nurse was sent to fetch Papa from his office, with instructions to return for Adele later. The policeman helped her choose a book and large box of chocolates and brought Adele with him to his work patrolling the Market. Of course Isabelle was already with her, as she always was, and it had been fun teaching her to read. But now the little girl was bored and the gypsy was a welcome distraction.

And though the trick she played was heartless, there was no malice in her heart.

She truly believed this odd little boy, with the nut-brown skin, thick black hair and ragged clothes, would go home to worried parents who would welcome him with hugs and kisses and hot pottage. That he lived in a cosy house - oh, _poor_, certainly, but Adele's idea of poor must surely have been Little Javert's idea of untold riches. In her mind's eye she pictured a small, simple, barely furnished room in which the family lived, ate and slept, with a blazing fire in its hearth, where Little Javert tonight would sit on a stool warming his hands while his mother stirred a cooking pot and his father laid a worn table with wooden bowls and jug of wine. And until then, what wonderful sport it would be to tease the boy whose eyes shone with adoration for her!

And so, as Little Javert reached for the box of bon-bons she, being closer, snatched them up off the table, meaning to make him chase her.

"Come! I have changed my mind. A kiss first, a chocolate afterwards, a fair exchange, is it not?" She laughed a merry, musical laugh as she immediately turned her pretty face away so that he couldn't kiss.

Oh, but Little Javert! So hungry, so desperate for chocolate, so drunk on its heavenly scent, he was much faster! Almost before his companion drew breath to speak, he had already sprung forward, not hearing, let alone heeding, her words; his filthy, callused hand had already brushed Adele's small white, delicate wrist; the box had already fallen: the chocolates tumbled and scattered on the ground.

In less than a moment he was there with them, crawling under table and bench, pushing, lifting, shaking discarded empty Market fruit boxes, sweeping away beetles that swarmed towards the unexpected banquet, tossing away skeletons of dead mice, snatching up soil and stones in his haste, stuffing each delicious, exquisite gem, dirt-smeared, muddy, grass-stained, into his mouth. It was only as he swallowed the last, and still searched in vain for more, that he at last recollected where he was. He raised himself slowly, half dead with shame, half sick with the bon-bons' richness, half delirious with joy of the taste.

Adele was staring at him. Sunlight had crept from a cloud and reflected on the tent, adding dashes of gold to her toffee-coloured tresses, lending a gentle glow to her porcelain skin, painting soft sunset hues to the rose pink dress. Never did she look more beautiful or more perfect than she did at that moment and yet her eyes…

Those brown eyes that should never see sadness shone with tears. And he, Little Javert, cruel Javert, had frightened her and made her cry.

He took a step back, distancing himself from his wickedness. It was only then he realised that, in his desperation to eat, he had knocked the doll from her arms. Biting his lip, Little Javert picked the toy up out of the mud and offered her to her owner. Small silver tears still coursed down the little girl's face as she silently accepted, cradling her beloved tenderly as a devoted mother. They both saw. Isabelle was broken. Her cornflower blue eyes gazed towards God and the Heavens; a jagged line ran down from her rouged cheekbone to the corner of her rosebud mouth, as if she too would join her mistress in her quiet tears.

"Please don't cry," Little Javert pleaded, and wiped a grubby hand over his own face, surprised and angry to feel its wetness. Had he not told himself never to be weak?

"I would have given you chocolate." Adele's choked, trembling voice was barely above a whisper. "I would have…"

But he never was to learn any more, for a sudden commotion startled them.

"Well, Adele, _mon petit chou_, what does thou think? Thou has a sister!"

The speaker, a tall, bearded gentleman, was wreathed in smiles though there was too an exhausted air about him, his hat titled, his hair wild, his coat crumpled, as though he had lately been somewhere in a tremendous hurry. He stooped and held out his arms to the little girl, so intent on her that he didn't notice the gypsy boy.

"Papa! Oh, Papa,_ Papa!"_ Adele ran to him and was lifted into his embrace, burying her face in his chest, her little body wracked with heartbroken sobs.

The gentleman was accompanied by a stout woman in plain grey dress and cape, and a stern-looking policeman, the first of whom scowled at Little Javert to see her favourite so distressed, while the latter immediately made a dart for the obvious malefactor.

But Little Javert, small enough to dodge and swerve, quick as a moonbeam, was gone. Fear and confusion carried him back to Pont Notre Dame, where the little bird had begun his flight, before he even thought where he was.

There was then, in the shadow of the great cathedral, a well known bakers, popular with the bourgeois and poor alike, outside which a child, younger than himself, stood sobbing, begging for scraps of food, and ignored by all.

And the heart that had not yet hardened was to be his undoing.

Little Javert knew his parents pick-pocketed among the crowds of Notre Dame, but, struck with pity for the boy, he grew bold and careless. He was hungry, but what of it? He had eaten that day, and well, he had dined on a stale half-loaf of bread and feasted on several stolen chocolates, and still he owned a sou! Without stopping to consider, guided by some instinct deep within, some burning desire for justice, he purchased an inferior slice of bread (it was all the baker would give) and presented it to the boy, who stared at both the unanticipated treat and Little Javert in astonishment for a moment before he quickly devoured his meagre meal. But when he was done eating, licking his fingers to savour every last morsel, he became suddenly afraid and watched, rooted to the spot in terror.

Little Javert felt a strong hand clamped on his shoulder and his devil of a father hissed in his ear. "So it comes back to us at last, the ungrateful young whelp!"

**XXXXX**

And what of Adele? Shall I tell you that she accused Little Javert of stealing bon-bons, of hurting her, of smashing her precious doll? Ah, but this I cannot do!

When realisation broke like morning, her tears of compassion, once begun, refused to stop. "Papa, papa, the little boy was _so hungry!__"_When she heard her friend had fled the tears fell faster. "We must find him, we must help him, we must feed him!"

How she begged and pleaded and cajoled over the weeks and months! But to her consternation nobody would listen. Adele had nothing to do with the poor, they said. Adele must have nothing to do with gypsies.

And what can a child do? Well, a child must do the best he or she can. Children can and will do the best they can to get by in a world governed by adults that would do far better ruled by children's hearts.


	6. Chapter 6

*****CHAPTER 6*****

*****Gypsies*****

Gypsies, said the good people of France, should not and must not be allowed to roam at will, heathens, thieves, charlatans, all. And take care, my friend, never stray alone by night; they hide in the shadows, and will steal your purse and slit your throat in the blink of an eye! Honest folk would do well to keep away from less salubrious areas, where the dark-souled dogs gather, and bring back days long past when a gypsy found in France was a gypsy flogged. Like rats, they were everywhere, down dark, dingy streets, in filthy hovels, under bridges, tainting God's pure air with their breath!

But at last, and to the great approval of its peoples, in 1765, long before Little Javert was born, the French Government introduced a bounty system. A law was passed that gypsies who did not move on would be arrested, and, dead or alive, a payment would be given for their capture, twenty-four francs for a male and nine for a female.

Oh, there were _some _who would defend, even feed, clothe and shelter the curs, but there were, and always would be, fools in every walk of life though gypsies, before their very noses, cursed their crops and stole their food. Now _most_ were not fools.

And so the good people of France set about ridding the grand old country of this vermin. Some made a sport of it and laid wagers on how many they could run to ground; others pooled their resources and shared their spoils; one or two gypsies, scoundrels that they were, betrayed each other to gain their own freedom if a higher prize was sought.

But there was great celebration over one particular gypsy and it was talked about long afterwards.

An enormously strong brute, he was, feared and hated by even his own kind, his eyes black as the coals of Hell, his face more animal than human, his roar of anger the snarl of the wild beast. Seven or more men would keep him down, but still he fought them off and drew blood; one fellow being thrown so heavily that at first they thought his back broken. Well, this wicked vagabond had evaded the law for years but a ruse to draw him forth at last bore fruit. Loud cheering rent the air when finally he was overpowered and, the police having been alerted and arriving at that opportune moment, he was shackled and taken off to the galleys. As for his wife - a wildcat, with claws that scratched and sharp, crooked teeth that bit, but no match for the good citizens of France! - and their gypsy brat, they were thrown on to the police cart with other gypsy wives and their young, bound for the workhouse, where the women would have their heads shaved and their pups taught honest work, if such a thing were possible for a gypsy.

Yes, Bernard Javert was caught that glorious night and though not a soul collected the reward (there being, it seemed, far too many claimants) it was not the police nor even soldiers, but the ordinary citizens of France who caught him!

**XXXXX**

Little Javert trembled. He had never been more terrified, not even when his father would fly into a rage and wrap the belt around his knuckles to beat him. His whole body shook and his breath came in short, sharp gasps that he tried desperately to swallow into silence lest the sound drew him to their attention.

The people had come for them. A terrible murder had been committed in Paris that year, a whole family slaughtered and their gold and silver stolen, and though it was proved beyond all doubt that a servant and his accomplices were the murderers, the first cry of _"Gypsies are responsible!"_ never died away. People who had once never troubled the gypsies, apart to perhaps spit and call them dirty, now took up arms against them and sought their capture in accordance with the law.

Often over the ensuing weeks the Javerts had fled from angry mobs, often they had escaped. But this time, as the sun began to dip over the Seine and shadows lengthened, his mother and father had been taken by surprise, a false promise believed, a false trail laid, the realisation of a trap too late. The only way out was to leap into the swirling river, but this, even if he were a grown man with the strength to do so, was impossible. Fierce men and women, even a dozen or more frightened, curious or goading children, swarmed on every inch of the bridge, more and more and more appearing each moment; they were before them, behind them, around them, jeering, spitting, shouting; their faces twisted with hate, their fists clenched in anger, their eyes afire with vengeance. Some had stout sticks and prodded them back like cattle; some threw stones that cut them; some carried babes; some carried pewter pots as if lately hurried away from their dinner; some carried torches and the taste and smell of smoke was thick on the air; the dying sun, before it fell into darkness, caught flashes of knives; there were gunshots, drumming, whooping, laughter, screaming, crying, chanting; words shouted about his mother that he barely understood though he knew they spoke of her body and her bed. His eyes stung from a mixture of smoke and tears. Nausea rose in his throat. His stomach heaved. And then…

…_all at once__…_

…a pool of foul-smelling vomit erupted, warm yellow urine dribbled down his legs and great wailing sobs engulfed his whole being. And all the while, all the while the trembling would _not_ stop, the sickness and tears and sobs would _not _stop and they would surely kill him now; tonight he would burn in the flames of Hell, where they said all gypsies came from and to which all gypsies must return.

Suddenly gravity was no more! He was held by the scruff of his neck in the clutch of a staggering, red-faced, inebriated young man, who, drawn from the inn by the shouts and commotion, encouraged by friends, egged on by strangers, had made a tottering, dancing, zig-zag journey to the front of the circle, with many a sweeping bow and doff of his top hat and idiot's smile, while the people laughed and clapped and soon emptied his pockets. At first, enraged that the child had soiled his handsome new boots, the fop swore profusely, and then, by dint of his audience's laughter, imagined he must be a general, a King, a thespian, a poet, and so lifted his hat once more and bowed once more, drew breath, or what breath he had left after traversing the bridge, and sang tunelessly of noble France. And as they mocked the drunken fool, he danced and swayed and sang his patriotic songs, even with a patriotic tear in his eye, Little Javert entirely forgotten still swinging in his grip.

But a change was now settling over the confusion of the evening. The police were arrived and tremendous cheers roared like thunderous waves as Bernard Javert was taken away with the other gypsies, bound for the Bagne of Toulon. The crowd began to clear a path, the trundle of carriage wheels came ever closer. An open wagon, muddied and strewn with straw, bearing a tightly-packed cargo of tired, ragged, filthy gypsy women and their children, halted nearby, the steam of breath from the snorting horses rising on the cooling air.

"Set the boy down, Monsieur." A policeman, of higher authority than the rest, demanded. The drunken fool complied without knowing what he was about. It might have been a dog, a walking stick, a box, that he rested. He smiled, bowed graciously, tottered, fell. Many of the throng, with a new interest to entertain them, stepped impatiently over the drink-befuddled, alcohol-stained, snoring heap. Someone removed his boots under pretext of making him more comfortable. Someone else took his gloves and hat. The police were occupied with the gypsies.

Jeanne Javert was bundled on to the transport, still kicking and scratching and swearing. The policeman who had told the young gentleman to lay down his load turned to Little Javert.

"Stop your snivelling, boy!" He snapped.

His gaze swept over the weeping child covered in vomit and urine and trying desperately to stem his tears with grazed, grubby knuckles. He seemed to be fighting some strong emotion. A good angel triumphed over his heart. His face softened as he bent towards the child, touched his shoulder, and added, in a low voice, almost a whisper, "There is no need to cry. You have nothing to fear. You will be fed and sheltered at the workhouse, even learn a trade. I have a boy about your age. A good, Christian boy who studies his Bible and hopes to be a policeman like his father. Learn your Bible, obey the law, wash away the gypsy blood that taints you, and you may one day even be a soldier! Here!" This to another police officer who was not so gentle and who flung Little Javert on to the vehicle, between a gaunt young mother who was scratching at lice and holding two screaming small children between her legs, and an old crone who muttered and cackled and pulled out brittle grey hair in great handfuls. It did not matter to the boy that he was not seated by his own mother. She had always been a stranger; he had always been alone.

Someone shouted an order to proceed. The driver cracked his whip, the mob melted away into the thickness of the night and the wagon rattled along the cobblestoned streets. A cold, grey rain was pattering down now. The women grew silent; the hungry babies mewed.

Few people had ever been kind to Little Javert. His throat was dry and burning, but the policeman's words had replaced his terror with wonder and he was dry-eyed. He drew his knees up to his chin and remembered the police officer who had ruffled his hair and made him a gift of the sou. Though he stared hard towards the misty figures and the steady trotting of the guards' horses he could not see the policeman who had spoken to him so gently. The night was black, the moon hidden, and only now and again the illumination of a street lamp dotted the darkness. But he knew the man had ridden to the front and there was somehow a comfort in knowing he was there.

And so he stared until shadows overwhelmed him and he was lost to sleep.


End file.
